


The Music He Plays

by Mazen



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22526404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazen/pseuds/Mazen
Summary: She always returned for his music.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	The Music He Plays

**Author's Note:**

> Based on prompt on tumblr by Jennyfair7.

Her hesitant steps were always more out of habit than nervousness; she’d been here many times, but often played the same game. Maybe she did it to make sure that he put on his mask, so she wouldn’t have to look upon him.

She knew where to find him: by his organ as usual. He’d only slept a few hours a week before, but it was even less now; instead, he existed in a constant fog that only cleared when she was there. He never went out or above anymore, not after the grasshopper and the scorpion, and only ate a bare minimum of what he could find in his house; whether it was left by the Daroga or even Christine, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

There was no doubt in his mind that the Vicomte - or Comte as he was now - didn’t know that she came to the monster for her fix. The schedule for her visits fit occasions he wouldn't be aware of her absent; at times she came late in the evening or the middle of the night. Sometimes it was late morning, obviously after her husband had left for whatever a Comte did. 

The only time Erik could be sure she wouldn't visit was in the afternoons where she possibly entertained guests or simply enjoyed life with her husband. Whatever they did. He didn’t know anything about her life; it was a mutual agreement not to talk about it, to spare him of the pain and her of the guilt.

This schedule of hers was the reason the Daroga came on afternoons. Erik never bothered with the mask for him, in spite of the grimace he noticed on the older man’s face every time. His skeleton head must’ve gotten worse with age, but he couldn’t find a reason to care as long as Christine still came. 

The Daroga would encourage him to take care of himself. He'd even attempted to wash Erik's face with a handkerchief once, but Erik had reacted with violence; he couldn't stand to be touched. Especially not now. 

She never touched him; he was too abhorrent, she so pure. Her handsome Comte was allowed that honor, but not him. Never him. 

He was grateful that she still was a part of his life. Without her irregular visits, he would've died a long time ago. 

The first time she'd returned, he had prepared for his demise. He'd visited the Daroga and explained the final moments he'd had with her, how she had allowed him to kiss her forehead, how their tears had mingled. How her lips had kissed him, the living corpse! 

The Daroga was assigned with taking care of the arrangements after his passing and to make sure that she knew when to return the ring. But she came early, finding him in his coffin, weak and heartbroken. 

For a naive moment he'd thought she had returned to be his bride, an absurd thought that nevertheless had crossed his hazed mind. "Will you play for me?" she'd asked and, though his body had been fragile and his fingers stiff, he hadn't been able to deny her. 

She never sang. That would’ve been too good for him. And they both knew what madness it brought out in him. To have her present, to play for her was more than he deserved and he would do anything to keep her there. 

That was why he'd ended up killing the Daroga. The great booby had run into Christine in Erik's tunnels and had dared to insult her: 

"You only make him wear the mask to avoid seeing the tears in his eyes," the man had shouted at her. "But _I_ see them, Comtesse, and it kills me!" 

She'd cried of course, being yelled at like that. "You don't understand," she'd pleaded in her beautiful, innocent voice, "I cannot live without him. I love him."

"You don't know how to love anything," the Daroga's words had been laced with malice and it was enough for Erik to find his Punjab lasso. "Except the music he plays perhaps. It's the only reason you're-" 

His awful accusations had been cut short by the catgut wrapping around his throat; with a flick of Erik's wrist, the Daroga's neck had snapped, silencing his words forever. 

Christine had cried and run back to her safe life, but returned a few days later after Erik had disposed of the body. 

She would always return as long as he played for her. And he always would. 


End file.
